Eye in the Sky (1957)

by Philip K. Dick

  “You next,” Brady said sanctimoniously. “Be a man, Hamilton. Remember you’re not a wallowing beast.”

  “Go to hell,” Hamilton retorted hotly. “And keep that lighter away from me.”

  “You refuse to subject yourself to ordeal by fire?” Brady inquired significantly.

  With reluctance, Hamilton extended his thumb. Perhaps, in this world, cigarette lighters did not burn. Perhaps, without realizing it, he was immune to fire. Perhaps—

  “Ouch!” Hamilton shouted, jerking his hand violently away.

  The technicians shook their heads gravely. “Well,” Brady said, putting away his lighter with a flourish of triumph. “That’s that.”

  Hamilton stood impotently rubbing his injured thumb. “You sadists,” he accused. “You God-mongering zealots. All of you belong back in the Middle Ages. You—Moslems!”

  “Watch it,” Brady warned. “You’re talking to a Champion of the One True God.”

  “And don’t forget it,” one of his assistants chimed in.

  “You may be a Champion of the One True God,” Hamilton said, “but I happen to be a top-flight electronics man. Think that over.”

  “I’m thinking,” Brady said, undisturbed.

  “You can stick your thumb into the arc of a welding torch. You can dive into a blast furnace.”

  That’s so,” Brady agreed. “I can.”

  “But what’s that got to do with electronics?” Glaring at the young man, Hamilton said, “Okay, wise guy. I challenge you to a contest. Let’s find out how much you know.”

  “You challenge a Champion of the One True God?” Brady demanded, incredulous.

  “That’s right”

  “But—” Brady gestured. “That’s illogical. Better go home, Hamilton. You’re letting your thalamus get hold of you.”

  “Chicken, eh?” Hamilton taunted.

  “But you can’t win. Axiomatically, you lose. Consider the premises of the situation. By definition, a Champion of the One True God triumphs; anything else would be a denial of His power.”

  “Stop stalling,” Hamilton said. “You can put the first question to me. Three questions for each of us. Pertaining to applied and theoretical electronics. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Brady responded reluctantly. The other technicians crowded around wide-eyed, fascinated by the turn of events. “I’m sorry for you, Hamilton. Evidently you don’t comprehend what’s going on. I’d expect a layman to behave in this irrational fashion, but a man at least partly disciplined in scientific—”

  “Ask,” Hamilton told him.

  “State Ohm’s Law,” Brady said.

  Hamilton blinked. It was like asking him to count from one to ten; how could he miss? “That’s your first question?”

  “State Ohm’s Law,” Brady repeated. Silently, his lips began to move.

  “What’s happening?” Hamilton demanded suspiciously. “Why are your lips moving?”

  “I’m praying,” Brady revealed. “For Divine help.”

  “Ohm’s Law,” Hamilton said. “The resistance of a body to the passage of electrical current—” He broke off.

  “What’s wrong?” Brady inquired.

  “You’re distracting me. Couldn’t you pray later?”

  “Now,” Brady said emphatically. “Later would be of no use.”

  Trying to ignore the man’s twitching lips, Hamilton went on. “The resistance of a body to the passage of electrical current can be stated by the following equation: R equals …”

  “Go on,” Brady encouraged.

  An odd, dead weight lay over Hamilton’s mind. A series of symbols fluttered, figures and equations. Like butterflies, words and phrases leaped and danced, and refused to be pinned down. “An absolute unit of resistance,” he said hoarsely, “can be defined as the resistance of a conductor in which—”

  “That doesn’t sound like Ohm’s Law to me,” Brady said. Turning to his group, he asked, “Does that sound like Ohm’s Law to you?”

  They shook their heads piously.

  “I’m licked,” Hamilton said, incredulous. “I can’t even state Ohm’s Law.”

  “Praise be to God,” Brady answered.

  The heathen has been struck down,” a technician noted scientifically. “The contest is over.”

  “This is unfair,” Hamilton protested. “I know Ohm’s Law as well as I know my own name.”

  “Face facts,” Brady told him. “Admit you’re a heathen and outside tie Lord’s grace.”

  “Don’t I get to ask you something?”

  Brady considered. “Sure. Go ahead. Anything you want”

  “An electron beam is deflected,” Hamilton said, “if it passes between two plates through which a voltage is applied. The electrons are subjected to a force at right angles to their motion. Call the length of the plates L1. Call the distance from the center of the plates to the …”

  He broke off. Slightly above Brady, close to his right ear, had appeared a mouth and hand. The mouth was quietly whispering into Brady’s ear; directed by the hand, the words vanished before Hamilton could hear them.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, outraged.

  “I beg your pardon?” Brady said innocently, waving away the mouth and hand.

  “Who’s kibitzing? Who’s giving you information?”

  “An angel of the Lord,” Brady said. “Naturally.”

  Hamilton gave up. “I quit. You win.”

  “Go on,” Brady encouraged. “You were going to ask me to plot the deflection of the beam by this formula.” In a few succinct phrases, he outlined the figures Hamilton had concocted in the privacy of his mind. “Correct?”

  “It’s not fair,” Hamilton began. “Of all the flagrant, blatant cheating—”

  The angelic mouth grinned coarsely and then said something crude in Brady’s ear. Brady permitted himself a momentary smile. “Very funny,” he acknowledged. “Very apt, too.”

  As the great vulgar mouth began to fade away, Hamilton said, “Wait a minute. Stick around. I want to talk to you.”

  The mouth lingered. “What’s on your mind?” it said, in a loud, rumbling, thunder-like mutter.

  “You seem to know already,” Hamilton answered. “Didn’t you just look?” The mouth twisted contemptuously. “If you can look into men’s minds,” Hamilton said, “you can also look into men’s hearts.”

  “What’s this all about?” Brady demanded uncomfortably. “Go bother your own angel.”

  “There’s a line somewhere,” Hamilton continued. “Something about the desire to commit a sin being as bad as actually committing it.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Brady demanded irritably.

  “As I construe that ancient verse,” Hamilton said, “it’s a statement concerning the psychological problem of motivation. It classes motive as the cardinal moral point, an actually committed sin being merely the overt outgrowth of the evil desire. Right and wrong depend not on what a man does but on what a man feels.”

  The angelic mouth made an agreeing motion. “What you say is true.”

  “These men,” Hamilton said, indicating the technicians, “are acting as Champions of the One True God. They are rooting out heathenism. But in their hearts lie evil motives. Back of their zealous actions lies a hard core of sinful desire.”

  Brady gulped. “What do you mean?”

  “Your motive for screening me out of EDA is venal. You’re jealous of me. And jealousy, as a motive, is unacceptable. I call attention to this as a coreligionist” Mildly, Hamilton added, “It’s my duty.”

  “Jealousy,” the angel repeated. “Yes, jealousy falls into the category of sin. Except in the sense of the Lord being a jealous God. In that usage, the term expresses the concept that only One True God can exist. Worship of any other quasi-God is a denial of His Nature, and a return to pre-Islamism.”

  “But,” Brady protested, “a Babiist can jealously pursue the Lord’s work.”

  “Jealously in the sense that he excludes all ot
her work and loyalties,” the angel said. “There is that one use of the term which does not involve negative moral characteristics. One can speak of jealously defending one’s heritage. Meaning, in that case, a zealous determination to guard that which belongs to one. This heathen, however, asserts that you are jealous of him in the sense that you wish to gainsay him his rightful position. You are motivated by an envious, grudging, and malign greed— in essence, by a refusal to submit to the Cosmic Apportionment.”

  “But—” Brady said, flapping his arms foolishly.

  “The heathen is right to point out that apparent good works which are motivated by evil intentions are only pseudo-good works. Your zealous acts are negated by your wicked covetousness. Although your actions are directed toward sustaining the cause of the One True God, your souls are impure and stained.”

  “How do you define the term impure,” Brady began, but it was too late. Judgment had been pronounced. Silently, the overhead sun dwindled to a gloomy, sickly yellow and then faded out altogether. A dry, harsh wind billowed around the group of frightened technicians. Underfoot, the ground shriveled and became arid.

  “You can make your appeals later,” the angel said, from the gloomy darkness. He prepared to depart. “You’ll have plenty of time to make use of the regular channels.” What had been a fertile section of the landscape surrounding the EDA buildings was now a blighted square of drought and barrenness. No plants grew. The trees, the grass, had withered into dry husks. The technicians dwindled until they became squat, hunched figures, dark-skinned, hairy, with open sores on their filth-stained arms and faces. Their eyes, red-rimmed, filled with tears as they gazed about them in despair.

  “Damned,” Brady croaked brokenly. “We’re damned.”

  The technicians were overtly and visibly no longer saved. Now dwarfish, bent-over figures, they crept miserably around, aimless and wretched. Night darkness filtered down on them through the layers of drifting dust particles. Across the parched earth at their feet slithered a snake. Soon after it came the first rasping click-click of a scorpion… .

  “Sorry,” Hamilton said idly. “But truth will out” Brady glared up at him, red eyes gleaming balefully in his whisker-stubbled face. Strands of filthy hair hung over his ears and neck. “You heathen,” he muttered, turning his back.

  “Virtue is its own reward,” Hamilton reminded him. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Nothing succeeds like success.”

  Going to his car, he climbed in and pushed the key into the ignition lock. Clouds of dust settled over the windshield as he began cranking the starter motor. Nothing happened; the engine refused to catch. For a time he continued pumping the accelerator and wondering what was wrong. Then, with dismay, he noticed the faded seat covers. The once brilliant and splendid fabrics had become drab and indistinct. The car, unfortunately, had been parked within the damned area.

  Opening the glove compartment, Hamilton got out his well-thumbed auto repair manual. But the thick booklet no longer contained schemata of automotive construction; it now listed common household prayers.

  In this milieu, prayer substituted for mechanical know-how. Folding the book open in front of him, he put the car into low gear, pressed down on the gas, and released the clutch.

  There is but one God,” he began, “and the Second Bab is—”

  The engine caught, and the car moved noisily forward. Backfiring and groaning, it crept from the parking lot toward the street. Behind Hamilton the damned technicians wandered around in their confined, blighted area. Already, they had begun arguing the proper course of appeal, citing dates and authorities. They’d have their status back, Hamilton reflected. They’d manage.

  It took four different common household prayers to carry the car down the highway to Belmont. Once, as he passed a garage, he considered stopping for repairs. But the sign made him hurry on.

  Nicholton and Sons

  Auto Healing

  And under it, a small window display of inspirational literature, with the leading slogan, Every day in every way my car is getting newer and newer.

  After the fifth prayer, the engine seemed to be performing properly. And the seat covers had regained their usual luster. Some confidence returned to him; he had gotten out of a nasty situation. Every world had its laws. It was simply a question of discovering them.

  Now evening had arrived everywhere. Cars raced along El Camino, their headlights blazing. Behind him, the lights of San Mateo winked in the darkness. Overhead, ominous clouds covered the night sky. Driving with utmost caution, he maneuvered his car from the lanes of commuter traffic over to the curb.

  To his left lay California Maintenance. But there was no use approaching the missile plant; even in his own world he hadn’t been acceptable. God knew what it would be like now. Somehow, he intuited that it could only be worse. Far worse. A man of Colonel T. E. Edwards’ type in this world would surpass belief.

  To his right lay a small, familiar, luminous oasis. He had loafed away many afternoons in the Safe Harbor … directly across from the missile plant, the bar was the favorite spot of the beer-drinking technicians on hot; mid-summer days.

  Parking his car, Hamilton clambered out and strode down the dark sidewalk. A light rain beat quietly down on him as he headed gratefully for the flickering red Golden Glow neon sign.

  * * * * *

  The bar was full of people and friendly noise. Hamilton stood for a moment in the entrance, taking in the presence of sullied humanity. This, at least, hadn’t changed. The same black-jacketed truck drivers hunched over their beers at the far end of the counter. The same noisy young blond sat perched on her stool: inevitable barfly drinking down her whiskey-colored water. The gaudy jukebox roared furiously in the corner next to the stove. To one side, two balding workmen were intently playing shuffleboard.

  Shouldering his way among the people, Hamilton approached the line of stools. Seated directly in the center, before the great plate-glass mirror, waving his beer mug, shouting and yelling at a group of momentary pals, was a familiar figure.

  A perverse gladness filled Hamilton’s confused and weary mind. “I thought you were dead,” he said, punching McFeyffe on the arm. “You miserable bastard.”

  Surprised, McFeyffe spun around on his stool, sloshing beer down his arm. “I’ll be damned. The Red.” Happily, he signaled the bartender. “Pour my pal a beer, goddam it.”

  Apprehensively, Hamilton said: “Pipe down. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard? About what?”

  “About what’s happened.” Hamilton sank down on a vacant stool beside him. “Haven’t you noticed? Can’t you see any difference between things as they were and things as they are?”

  “I’ve noticed,” McFeyffe said. He did not appear disturbed. Lifting aside his coat, he showed Hamilton what he was wearing. Every conceivable good luck charm hung from him; an array of devices for each situation. “I’m twenty-four hours ahead of you, buddy,” he said. “I don’t know who this Bab is, or where they dug up this corny Arab religion, but I’m not worried.” Stroking one of the charms, a gold medalion with cryptic symbols carved in interwoven circles, he said, “Don’t trifle with me or I’ll get a plague of rats in here to gnaw you apart.”

  Hamilton’s beer arrived and he accepted it avidly. Noise, people, human activity blared around him; temporarily content, he relaxed and allowed himself to slide passively into the general uproar. When it came down to it, he didn’t really have much choice.

  “Who’s your friend?” the sharp-faced little blond demanded, squirming over beside McFeyffe and draping herself around his shoulder. “He’s cute.”

  Take off,” McFeyffe told her good-naturedly. “Or I’ll turn you into a worm.”

  “Wise guy,” the girl sniffed. Pulling up her skirt, she indicated a small white object slipped under her garter. “Try and beat that,” she told McFeyffe.

  Fascinated, McFeyffe gazed at the object “What is

  “The metatarsal bone of Mohammed.”
r />   “Saints preserve us,” McFeyffe said piously, sipping his beer.

  Pushing down her skirt, the girl addressed Hamilton. “Haven’t I seen you in here before? You work across the street at that big bomb factory, don’t you?”

  “I used to,” Hamilton answered.

  “This joker’s a Red,” McFeyffe volunteered. “And an atheist”

  Horrified, the girl drew back. “No kidding?”

  “Sure,” Hamilton told her. At this point, it was all the same to him. “I’m Leon Trotsky’s maiden aunt. I gave birth to Joe Stalin.”

  Instantly, a shattering pain snapped through his abdomen; doubled up, he fell from the stool onto the floor and sat clutching himself, teeth chattering with agony.

  “That’s what you get,” McFeyffe said without pity.

  “Help,” Hamilton appealed.

  Solicitous, the girl crouched down beside him. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Where’s your Bayan?”

  “Home,” he whispered, ashen with pain. Renewed cramps lashed up and down inside him. “I’m dying. Burst appendix.”

  “Where’s your prayer wheel? In your coat pocket?” Lithely she began searching his coat; her nimble fingers plucked and flew.

  “Get—me to a—doctor,” he managed.

  The bartender leaned over. “Throw him out or fix him up,” he told the girl brusquely. “He can’t die here.”

  “Does somebody have a little holy water?” the girl called, in a penetrating soprano.

  The crowd stirred; presently a small flat flask was passed forward. “Don’t use it all,” a voice cautioned peevishly. “That was filled at the font at Cheyenne.”

  Unscrewing the top, the girl dribbled the tepid water on her red-nailed fingers and quickly sprinkled drops over Hamilton. As they touched him, the fierce pain ebbed. Relief spread over his tortured body. After a time, with some help from the girl, he was able to sit up.

  “The curse is gone,” the girl remarked matter-of-factly, returning the holy water to its owner. “Thanks, mister.”

  “Buy that man a beer,” McFeyffe said, without turning around. “He’s a true follower of the Bab.”